


Endgame

by XP1



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XP1/pseuds/XP1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the warehouse - before the meeting.<br/>Bullets and breathing and his'try repeating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endgame

EndGame By XP1

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just trying to keep them  
alive. 1013 all rights reserved. 

Rated: PG-13 (Situational. Slight profanity. Par-tay!).

Summary: After the warehouse - before the meeting.  
Bullets and breathing and his'try repeating. 

Category: Story, Mulder/Scully Romance, Angst

Spoilers: Kitsunegari , Missing Scene

Archive: Yup, just tell me where it goes below.

Notes: Scully POV. Because so much of this story is told  
from the view point of the character, I wanted a writing  
style that reflected the actual process of thought. I've  
tried to replicate that as much as possible below.

Feedback: Please. Xp1feedback@gmail.com

 

***

I shoot.

He flinches. He turns away. Breath. Breathe breathe 

Breathebreathbreathe  
sloooowwwwllly. Breath in. Breathe out. 

He looks away. He looks back. At what?

Head cocked: "Mulder?" 

He looks like he could still kill me.

He turns away. I put a hand on his arm. He's processing. I think. 

Bowman's rambling. Damn warehouse echoes. "You think you can hold me?"

I think I can kill you, and for a just a moment, with my mind's eye as I look to him, I do. With prejudice. 

Livid as I make the call. With her. 

With him. 

He almost killed me today.

This time it really would have been his fault. 

Our.

Our fault.

He's not looking at me. He's off somewhere. His lips are moving. I watch him and my anger becomes worry becomes fury becomes concern. A never ending cycle. He's just sort of looking at his shoes. We both know we don't have much time before we become the center of attention again. I end the call, beginning the countdown. 

My right heel clicks once towards him. He stops me with an outstretched hand, his body half turned away from me as he hears me draw near. He's stopped me. 

"Mulder?"

"No."

"MUL-der..."

"Not yet."

I let out a sigh. 

"Scully..."

I look up. He's sweating, chewing on his lower lip. Eyes cast down. "Not *yet*." Eyes glance up, far away still. Wet. Slightest bit wild. Dampens my anger.

I don't know what to do.

I am seething. 

I am so worried.

I want to comfort, but nothing so much that will set him off. He needs to keep it together. He needs a partner. Protector. Comfort will only tell him it is safe to let go. 

Not safe. Not yet.

We are in charge, after all.

I come towards him. He's wary, but trusting. Shaking slightly. Still holding his gun. I hold out my hand, bookending an incident three years prior. He gives it to me. I take it. Mentally weigh it. Subtract the weight of a single bullet. Would he have stopped at just one? How many bullets could fit in my skul-

What did he see?

I pull the lapels of his jacket back and holster it, repressing myself, he's not breathing right, don't touch him don'ttouchhim let the tips of my fingers rest on cool metal and hot leather as it rests on him. 

I want to touch him. 

I don't touch him. There are sirens in the background. I want to cry. 

I don't cry. His eyes are pleading. His lips are parted, panting, panicky. He needs to keep it together. He swipes at his eyes. Message received.

***

He's losing it.

He'd been a good little trooper for nearly an hour. I've watched without looking as he gave his statement to the Virginia PD. On autopilot, his actions rehearsed. Rote.  
Some part of him has checked out for the time being to allow him to finish the job.

He'd paced since the beginning, started shuffling his feet right around when they were finally loading up Linda Bowman. Uncanny really. It was like a mask descended over  
him. Mind fucked Mulder one minute, and at the first inkling of another human being, Special Agent in Charge F. William Mulder the next.

Unsettling.

But he's losing it. Been coughing slightly, trying to cover it with less than steady hands for about ten minutes now. I strip off bloody gloves, hop out of the ambulance,  
leave Linda Bowman. Exhale, wipe a hand across my face. Mental inventory: hungry. Hot. Muscles ache. Shoulders burn. Throat hurts from yelling. Head hurts from being  
yelled at. Almost got shot in the face. Second verse, same as the first. This is exactly what happened the last time, only different. Not exactly a bang up day. 

We never learn. 

Tired. Hard to think. Sleep for days. Quilt wrapped around me more completely than any man. Hot bath. Frozen dinner. Shot in the face. Wild eyes. The ambulance doors bang shut and I jump. Separately, he flinches. 

Exhale sloooooowwwwly through my nose. Wild eyes then. 

 

One more patient to take care of.

***

"Ready to blow this joint?" He asks as I stop in front of him.

I don't answer; aghast at his choice of words. He looks at me. Apologetic, but desperate. Eyes bloodshot. Watery. He puts a hand on my upper arm. Strong man. Hurts a little. A partnerly gesture to the outside police force watching us here and there, but he's trying  
to tell me something with his too tight grip and his thumb slowly stroking my bicep. 

Shit. 

He *really* doesn't have much time left.

Apology accepted. I rub my eyes. Headache. Head. Gun. 

Mulder. 

It's time to go. 

***

I follow him to our rental. He sits. He stares. I start the car. 

I pull away. I drive a mile. 

Two. I want to go faster. Out run the day. 

Ten.

Silence.

Twenty.

Shaking. 

Twenty two- 

"Scully." -then-

"Pull over."

I do.

He gets out.

I get out. 

He doesn't go far. 

I get out a "Mul-" as he walks towards me with purpose, collides into me. 

Crushes me. 

He's hugging me. Both arms around my entire body hugs me. Strong man. Nuzzles his cheek on the top of my head. Moves his lips against my crown. I don't hear him. Arms  
pinned, I can do little else but hug his waist, my wrist alongside his sidearm. It is a little hard to breathe. He smells like sweat and stress and man. He's nudging strands of hair at the crown of my head with his nose. Breathes me in. His gun is right next to me. It should  
have killed me an hour ago. He smells like skin and dress shirts would he have emptied the clip and soap-

-and then he pulls back. Abrupt. Turns, and returns back to his seat. I'm left standing, arms still inviting.

What the hell just happened?

He's staring out the side window, again. My arms are heavy with his memory. It is a little hard to breathe. I smell only Virginia. 

Now I'm really worried. 

***

"I watched you die."

There is a pause.

"I gathered." I'm not sure what else to say, perched dumbly on his coffee table.  
He's quiet on the couch, face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His voice is raw with the tail end of a crying jag that I was not privy to. When we arrived at his apartment  
he was shaking. Trembling hands jangled keys as I watched a graceful man awkwardly stumble through his front door, lean on the doorframe, bow his head. Hitch his shoulders.  
I'd stepped forward, tried to brace him. He stopped me before I could even touch him by asking me to get something at the corner store. Excuse me - come again? 

Dumbfounded, I'd asked him what. 

He'd said 'anything'. 

My anger returns as indignation. I have been dismissed.

My anger returns as misplaced guilt: I do the same thing. 

I left him to an hour of privacy, but no more.

Now, he rubs his face, drying tear streaks fading gently in the shining moonlight of the darkened apartment. I brace myself for the  
"How?" 

He stiffens. For a moment I think I *will* see him cry tonight. He doesn't. He lifts his head. Rests it on creaky black leather. Lowers his hands, rests his  
forearms on his thighs, hands between his knees. Closes his eyes. Swallows.

Softly: "Suicide".

Softer: "Begging".

A tear again.

I am there, for him. 

I brush his tears away with my thumbs. I place a hand on his. Leave the other on his cheek. 

He cries to me, only a little, but slowly, softly, finally, one drop by one. I am there to catch them. One drop by one. His eyes are moving under their lids. 

He starts. Suddenly his eyes are on me. He brings his hands up to either side of my head, looking at me, into me, past me. Thumbs stroke my temples as soft tears slowly squeeze out his eyes. I capture each one. He moves my head gently from side to side, checking, stroking. Palms the back of my head, palpates the base of my skull. Hands are slightly rough. Writing and gun calloused. Warm. Gentle. Traces my right temple as his hands return to the sides of my head. His strokes get bolder, turn into caresses as his mind processes the fact that everything is, apparently, as it should be. 

It's all beginning to fall into place. 

He places his head on my shoulder. Breathes a wet sigh into the side of my neck; he is satisfied of something. Places tears, kisses where his breath was. I'mnotbreathing right. Fine line here. Kisses up along my jawline. Swallow. Fight it? I let it flooow. He smells  
like man and tears and rented Taurus. Moves a hand to my neck, thumbs my carotid. A kiss to both eyelids. Both cheeks. My nose. A warm kiss on my forehead. Parts the  
strands at the top of my head with his nose. Inhales me. Tears. A kiss to both temples. Hands tracing my neck. 

Lips descend.

"Muld"-

"Shhh. Please."

"It was a head wound?"

"It was a head wound."

I let him continue. He memorizes everything but my lips with his for a long time. 

***

Someone closes a door too loudly. It bangs.

A gunshot. 

I'm shot. 

I flinch, before I know better. My day's traumas are getting harder to keep to myself. I was doing ok for awhile.

But I'm losing it.

My hands fly up to my face. Defensive. Protective. His, palms up, facing toward me. Snapped out of our little world at the speed of sound. Takes us a minute to register. Nervous sighs all around when it does. Moves to me, clasps a hand in mine. Chuckles slightly, tries to put me at ease. He has had his catharsis. And mine?

He brings my cold hand to his lips. Holds it there. I let out a shaky breath, bring my lips to the tips of his clasped fingers. Our noses touch. He breathes me in, my anxious exhalations too loud, too fast, in this damn quiet apartment. There's no hiding it from him now. Losing it losingitlosingit find a way to keep it get out getout

"Your turn Scully." He mutters against my knuckles. Kissing them with his words.  
I'm too angry or scared to notice much. So damn tired. 

Lips against my fingers, his thumb softly tracing the inside of my wrist.

Pleading: "Talk to me" 

I scoff. "Will you listen?"

Stops him cold. "Excuse me?"

"You didn't listen to me, Mulder."

"And you didn't listen to me. So we're consistent."

"And how long before our little consistencies get us killed? So we never listen to one another, fine, that I'm used to on a case. It works for us. It gets results. But  
this time, this time you didn't listen, right from the beginning I told you to walk away,"  
I'm rambling "and it almost..." floundering. Scraping hands over face. Grimy. Oily. Hot.  
Don't think about your face your faceyourface

"I don't even know how you *hesitated*."

I sigh out a groan. Drop my hands, grit my teeth: "The people change, the places change, but at the end of the day I end up with a gun to my head-"

"And I end up being the one holding it." He stands, explodes. Contained, though violent. "If it was you, Scully, which one would you rather be?" My chin drops to my chest. We'd both rather die than kill the other. 

It's time to go. I stand, click towards the door. 

"Scully?" 

I'm halted.

He speaks, wavering: "Are we going to be okay?" 

Snort. Derision. "Oh, we'll be just fine Mulder." Lick my lips. "And we'll keep being fine until one of us ends up with a bullet in the brain." 

Low, dangerous: "Who among us will have pulled the trigger Scully?"

I turn back to him. An old fashioned stare down. Eye to eye. Eyes drift to lips. Don't think about his lips on you. His lips on your face. God. Don't think about your  
face. Be angry. Don't think about your sweet baby blues exploding on impac-

Getoutta there. 

Turn. Leave. Hand on the doorknob. So close get out getOUT

A manila envelope on the veranda. Goddamn eye catching. Goddamn catches my eye. Leave leave I am so predictable. 

I pick it up. Make the "what's this?" face. Arch my eyebrow would I still have had eyebrow-

"Dead hazelnut farmer. Michigan. Day after tomorrow." His gravelly voice responds, devoid of its power now. Doesn't quite have the resolve it should. But murder is murder.  
Work is work, sexy or not. Sexy. Was I beautiful in death?

"You in?" he looks at me through half lidded eyes.

I look wearily at him, at the file as I sigh.

Am I?

I take the file with me. Predictable.

I'm halfway out the door. 

From the darkness: "Scully."

I turn to him in profile. Aquiline nose that should be just so much blood and cartilage now silhouetted against harsh hallway halogens. Eyes burning. 

"I'm sorry I didn't learn from my mistakes."

Exhale through my nose. Too hard on him tonight. Always too hard.

Soft, forgiving, from the light: "I'm sorry we didn't learn from *our* mistakes, Mulder."  
I turn slightly towards him. "I just hope we do in time."

A warning. To the both of us. 

***

I close the door.

Cover quivering lips with cold thin fingers.

7 am: MRI, Bowman.

9 am: meeting, Skinner.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Start walkin'.

Keep breathing. 

EndGame Bowman.

Sayonara Modell.

Time to stop thinking. 

Time to go home. 

***

EndGameBy XP1 

Xp1feedback@gmail.com

What comes next (just putting it into context):  
SKINNER: I just want to say you did a good job.  
MULDER: How's that?  
SKINNER: Nobody could have figured this out but you. You knew it was Linda Bowman and not Modell. You were way ahead of me.  
MULDER: I almost killed my partner.  
SKINNER: Mulder, despite that, you prevailed. You won her game.  
MULDER: Then how come I feel like I lost?  
-Transcript from insidethex.co.uk


End file.
